Isadora's Bane
by TheDarkandDisturbed
Summary: There was another archangel. The twin of Lucifer, who beheld the same beauty and was known for her compassion. Yet her compassion became her greatest weakness, and because of it was dragged down to the cage by her twin. It's 2000 years later that she rises once more, yet she wasn't simply lucky. (Follows the basic storyline of SPN season 5)
1. Prologue

Her raw flesh scraped across the pavement, a low scuttle filling the otherwise silent air when her feet dragged along. Her arms wrapped around her, bloodied palms pressed close to the ratty towel she'd taken from the clothesline. Her lips pursed, throat dry and sore from the screaming. Her brown hair, once soft and curly, was clinging to her back, drenched with blood and bringing the sting from the fresh burn to a constant sensation. She could feel, now, and she was overwhelmed with it. Betrayed because of the monster she'd seen her brother become, infuriated from the betrayal... But there was a sole thing picking at her, something bitter to taste and unnerving her fresh soul.

... She was terrified, because she wouldn't know what to do if he came around... And human, because the pain clung to her more than the sack of flesh she was eternally bound to.

She kept moving on, one foot in front of the other as she clung to the thin cloth that covered her. Every step took her further away, and such was the sole reason a happy feeling flickered in the back of her mind. Such was one of the reasons she chose to remain alive.

A light then flashed, the brilliant incandescence blinding her sight and leaving a ringing pitch to assault her ears. She cringed away, trying to burrow her head into her arms, yet it was far too late for any of the sort. It was wrapping around her, devouring her and leaving her head throbbing in pain and annoyance. She was lucky when it ended, when the light flickered and vanished as the object heaved her off of her feet and departed with a ringing blackness.


	2. New Orleans

New Orleans

She woke up in the dead of night, surrounded by the comfort of a fluffy comforter in the dead of night… Yet the sensation was too perfect, and it put her on edge. She stood immediately, ignoring the faint sway of her vision from such quick movements, and looked down at her arms.

The black ash still glowed, her grace fighting to stay within… Fighting to keep her the archangel she was made to be.

Her healing was slowly accelerating, bringing the once prominent black and festering scar to a gray line with the slightest of throbbing. This gave her relief, and she simply walked outside, bloodied and frayed clothes adorning her body as if she were boasting simple fashions. Everyone stared as she passed a massive expanse of a lobby, wondering exactly what had gotten into this woman's mind—yet she continued, head high and jaw clenched as she tried to bleach the memories of the cage away.

Upon stepping outside, she focused on teleporting away. The attempt brought a fiery sting to her mind, and she held back a whimper as she realized just how damaged she officially was. As much as the 2000 years hadn't seemed to account for, one of the most powerful ranks of angels couldn't even _teleport._

"So weak," she murmured shakily, eyes sparking in some sort of wonder when she saw the moon high in the sky.

"… And so full of emotion," she added in something on the verge of disgust. She hated feeling, despised it for what it gave her in return for endless ages of love and compassion.

She kept pushing forward, one foot in front of the other, until she came upon a massive sign marking an area differing in a mass of age and architecture that read 'The French Quarter'. She pushed onward, looking around to memorize the appearance for future reference. She had no idea as to where her traitorous brother would be, and she was too weak to move on—which meant she must flourish here before moving on.

"It's wonderful to see a new face around," a voice behind her murmured, to which she halted herself and turned to see him.

She was utterly stunned. She couldn't see the brilliant orb that was his soul, rather a set of dark brown eyes glimmering under the streetlights. Her brow furrowed in intrigue, and she tilted her head and moved around him for better perspective. His skin was dark, reminding her of the first humans that her father had placed upon the earth. His hair was trimmed, and there was scruff on his chin styled enough to be proper.

"It is strange," she agreed, "generally we cannot see past the soul."

A silence presented itself between them, before the man flashed in front of her, a hand gently holding either arm to stop her from moving anymore. She scoffed in astonishment, and then smiled.

"Your kind has increased their speed, how wonderful. I fear such speed may be required for the oncoming apocalypse."

The man seemed to brush off that comment, and held out his hand.

"Mar—"

"Marcellus Gerard!" She exclaimed, completely cutting him off and smiling in delight. She was capable of recognizing species and names now, yet the thought of what he was made her lose hope for the humans.

"My mistake…" she murmured, "the humans are still slow, aren't they?"

"Fortunately enough," another voice murmured. She turned around just in time to press her palm to the forehead of another vampire in self-defense, and the ability simply worked without her command. The vampire's eyes began to glow, and he screamed in pain before dropping lifelessly to the ground.


	3. Isadora

Isadora

The anger was evident in Marcel, rising up and curling into a hideous beast that ravaged his self-control. His hands clenched to fists, and he managed to push her to the ground. Yet she was only caught by surprise, and the sudden attack brought a slight shiver of fear through her.

"Who do you think you _are_?" Marcel inquired, an animalistic snarl ripping past his lips. The vampire was surfacing, bringing the veins to surface under his eyes, his eyes being inked out by scarlet. She stood up, looking between him and the dead vampire that lay beside them. There was more of them gathering, now, and yet she managed to forgive him and remained calm.

"Is—" She began, halting from saying her true name to realize; She couldn't go around screaming her name to the heavens, the vampires seemed to be the worst of this town—and her survival demanded that it remain that way. "Rosalie," she continued with a lie, using the beautiful name of her vessel. She noted how Marcel reached towards her when he'd introduced himself, so she did the same. She grabbed his hand with hers, and smiled in greeting.

Marcel scoffed, almost in bewilderment with her actions.

"I apologize for the demise of your acquaintance," she assured, "but I may be able to bring him back once I regain my strength. It is much more difficult to pull one back from Purgatory than it is to pull one from hell."

Her vessel's mind stirred, informing her that she just 'fucked up royally' and that she had no chance of survival if she continued to speak of any abilities. This brought her to gasp; yet no words could be spoken before Marcel roared. His voice was a mixture of confusion, anger, and amusement—the components of it seeming to set all others on edge.

"I'm kind enough to let you into my town, and you killed one of my best nightwalkers!" Marcel's voice slowly rose further and further, and then he tried to shove her again—yet she remained still.

This action seemed to find the pinnacle of his anger, and he plunged a knife into her. She only flinched, and looked down at the glistening silver to frown.

"I apologize," she began, "yet your human methods of pain do not seem to affect me."

Her hand clenched around the leather handle, embracing the strange texture as she pulled the blade that was burrowed into her chest. Her vessel's wound healed quickly—with all credit to her—and she sent Marcel a penitent, uneasy smile before turning around and walking away.

Marcel didn't know how to act towards this, but he knew for a fact that she couldn't come back. The bitch needed to stay away from his quarter—and, most importantly, he needed to figure out how to kill her. His immediate thoughts were that she was a vampire with a massive pain tolerance, probably centuries old to be able to handle that. He'd need men, and he'd need to be armed to the teeth if he truly expected to off her. Marcel ran his mind over her rugged appearance. Her clothes were practically just pieces of fabric that clung onto her, and he didn't miss that sheen of fear in her eyes upon his successful attempt to push her… Something bad had happened, and he'd have to figure it out so he could use that against her.

Marcel turned to his men, masking the lingering frustration with one of his brilliant smiles and holding his arms out in an open, embracing manner.

"What happened to the party?" He questioned, and he received a roar of cheering in response. Marcel worked his way through the crowd, ready to take Klaus up on that offer to drink.


End file.
